


sun lights up the daytime // moon lights up the night

by InANonCriminalWay



Series: fever with thy flaming youth [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alpha James Ironwood, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, First Meetings, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Meet-Cute, Omega Qrow Branwen, Pre-Slash, Scent Marking, Scenting, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29479917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InANonCriminalWay/pseuds/InANonCriminalWay
Summary: Unfortunately, his logic comes back to hit him square on the nose when his sister asks him (in the drawl dripping of sarcasm she’s so fond of) if he’s excited about the Crown Prince of Remnant visiting Beacon over breakfast the next day.Qrow, classy as always, promptly chokes on his own spit. “What?”--a historical-ish royalty au
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/James Ironwood
Series: fever with thy flaming youth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165340
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	sun lights up the daytime // moon lights up the night

Qrow Branwen was five years old when he’d first been told that he’d soon be an alumnus of Beacon Finishing School for Fine Young Omegas; his response was to scrunch up his nose and make a vomit noise. His response now as a fifteen-year-old is similar. They’re pompous, pretentious and boring as shit. The amount of interest he has in learning how to run a household and catch an alpha’s attention is about the same he has in watching paint dry.

Still, Beacon’s better than living with any Branwen besides Raven. He’d recognized that when he was ten years old and he recognizes it now. He’d much rather sit through lectures on how a good omega should sit than be promised to the cruelest alpha their father could find for him. 

It doesn’t soften the blow of being undermined at every step and having any individual thought silenced, but he’s yet to find anyone who can silence him. A direct consequence of that is three years of folding extra laundry or doing extra kitchen time or any odd jobs lying around that weren’t deemed too laborious as punishment for not paying enough attention in his etiquette classes or for being mysteriously absent for anything he doesn’t give a shit about. No one’s yet decided a suitable punishment for the time he’d decked their dance teacher for calling Summer a ‘waste of perfectly fine legs’.

That didn’t mean he got away with it, but it was a close call… if your definition of close also includes distances that would be considered incredibly far.

Shitall of the punishments have been remotely effective. They can give him as much of Lisa Lavender’s knickers to fold as they want, it’s not gonna stop him from talking back to the wankers that are most of the teachers. The closest was the time he’d been put in solitary confinement, but that was shut down practically immediately since it was deemed unhealthy for omegas. Apparently, they’re inherently sociable creatures which is news to him.

His harpsichord (and seriously, who the fuck owns a harpsichord let alone plays one?) tutor had once threatened to have him sent home, but he’d seen the look in Ozpin’s eye when he’d returned from a ‘walk’ with his Father sporting an impressive shiner. The old twit would never go for it. 

Last time, Oz had just told him he had to actually attend a ball practice and set Glynda on him to make sure he’d filled up his mandatory dance card. He’d glared at every patron who approached him, but Glynda’s glaring had proven stronger.

So he stepped on their toes every six beats and danced to a simple meter instead of compound. 

He hadn’t bothered to go to the one last night. Summer had tried to drag him to it, but he’d ‘disappeared’ halfway through the walk and miraculously made his way back to their shared dorm. 

His interest in showing off for the Remnant nobles surmounts to a great big whopping zero. He’s content to stay unmated and be the weird Uncle to Raven’s future kids, and if that doesn’t happen, he’ll accept marrying someone who lives far away from the rest of the Branwens. Father can send him as many strongly-worded letters that dance around the edge of threats as he likes, that’s not going to make him prance about in front of all those pompous asses. 

Plus he’s not at the absolute bottom of the stupid fucking rankings. He might be miles off first place, but he’s smart enough and dexterous enough to keep him middling. Even if he doesn’t care enough to try, and his ‘Cleaning Standards’ and ‘Aesthetic Pleasure’ scores will always be abysmal, he breezes through the academic shit.

And with middling scores, he’s hardly going to attend any lavish balls once he graduates and is forced to mate some thick-headed, egotistical knothead, ergo, no need to go to ball practice. 

Unfortunately, his logic comes back to hit him square on the nose when his sister asks him (in the drawl dripping of sarcasm she’s so fond of) if he’s excited about the Crown Prince of Remnant visiting Beacon over breakfast the next day. 

Qrow, classy as always, promptly chokes on his own spit. “ _What?_ ”

Raven repeats herself with a situating grin on her face.

He scowls at her which just serves to widen her grin. He huffs, “Guess that explains why they’ve set out all the stupid cutlery. How the hell did I miss that?”

“They announced it last night at the ball,” Raven says and he wants to toss his stupid breakfast roll at her stupid face to get rid of her stupid grin. “A spontaneous inspection, apparently.”

Summer takes that as her cue to chime in, bumping her shoulder against his as she speaks in a sing-song voice, “Not to say I told you so, but-”

“I have at least five different knives I can use to cut your tongue out, Rosebud,” he interrupts though he can hardly bring any anger to his tone. She smiles wickedly back at him. 

“If only you could get a score for feral surgery in the rankings,” Raven teases and he snorts, stroking the sharpest knife available to him threateningly. Raven rolls her eyes, then leans forward to whisper, “Bet you a laundry shift that the visit is about keeping up appearances after the accident, and nothing to do with an inspection.”

“How is anyone meant to win that bet, Rae?” he asks in a flat tone and tears a chunk off of his bread roll. “Besides, I’m already booked in for triple shifts every day this week for skipping practice last night so I couldn’t take it if I wanted, which, for the record, I don’t.”

“And what? You’re trying to rack up even more right now?” Summer asks, crossing her arms in front of her. He raises an eyebrow in question. “We both know you know that we’re not meant to eat until the visitors are seated and that you’re meant to use a knife and fork.”

“It’s a piece of fucking bread, Summer,” he deadpans and she snorts despite herself. “Let me, at least, eat that normally before we swap out a perfectly good set of cutlery every fucking course.”

She fixes him with an unimpressed look, “You say that as if you haven’t mastered the art of the seven forks.”

“And you say that as if you hadn’t mastered the art of the seven fucking forks before you’d even learned how to walk.”

“It was after actually,” she retorts and while her mouth is pressed into a thin line, her eyes are smiling, “And it’s hardly worse than being taught how to rip a throat out with your teeth.”

“Hey guys,” Raven starts, but the rest of her sentence is muffled by his own voice.

“As if they’d teach that to the omegas,” he snarks and Summer mimes a dramatic gasp, “I had to learn that all on my own. Besides, that’s way better ways to kill someone… or at least less messy ones.”  
Summer smirks, “What I’m getting is that your tidiness scores should take your murder skills into account.” 

“Guys.”

“Aesthetic pleasure too,” he agrees and grins when she raises an eyebrow, “What? I’ve been reliably informed that I look in-fucking-credibly sexy with my blood splattered all over my face.”

“Are you sure they said blood?” Summer asks innocently, “Blood does sound a lot like another word.”

He bites back a laugh and schools his face into mock-scandal, “Ex-fucking-cuse me, Miss Rose-”

Raven interrupts with a hiss, “ _Guys_.”

In sync, they turn back to her and then freeze when a familiar voice says, “I apologize for the tardiness, Your Highness, one of the tutors had a pressing matter I had to attend to.”

“It’s no problem, Professor Ozpin,” a smooth voice replies and Qrow’s not sure he’s ever going to breathe again. He stares straight ahead at Raven, trying not to move a muscle. “We’ve been enjoying the atmosphere of the school in your absence. 

The three of them keep deadly quiet until they can be sure the Prince and his entourage are out of earshot, each of them releasing a breath when such moment came.

“That was the fucking Prince,” he breathes out, trying to ignore the way his throat is tightening. “The bloody fucking Prince of Remnant was standing behind me while I said I look incredibly sexy while covered in blood.”

“ _In-fucking-credibly sexy_ , actually,” Raven corrects and he sends her the flattest look he can muster. “But yeah, he was.”

“How long were they there?” Summer asks, her eyes wide and full of fear. He swallows and bumps his shoulder against her some weak attempt at comfort.

“They got here when you two were waxing poetic about the art of the seven forks,” Raven informs them and breaks a bit off her bread roll. 

“Wonderful,” he says and leans back in his chair. “Don’t suppose anyone wants to put odds on the Prince not being a traditional alpha scandalized by the uh, the everything about me?”

“I’ve been reliably informed that you can’t gamble with laundry shifts for the rest of the weeks,” Raven tells him and he glares as he eats the rest of his bread in one attempt. “One thing's for certain, little brother, you definitely know how to make a first impression.”

-

His second impression isn’t much better.

It’s not entirely his fault this time, there’s equal parts blame for him and Raven. She was the one who pushed a very lost and terrified first year his way.

He refuses to blame the first year. It’s not her fault that her classroom got changed because of the Prince’s visit and fuck knows that the school is confusing to navigate when you haven’t been dragging yourself through it for three years. 

Plus, it’s no one’s fault that the new room was on the opposite side of the school to his classroom, though it does make him late for history. Any other day, he’d just enter the classroom, ‘apologize’ for being late and sit down at his table. 

Of course, that doesn’t happen because apparently, the universe seems to hate him today. First, he probably offends the Prince of the land in which he lived and now he’s late for the lesson that the Prince and his entourage are observing. He’ll be lucky if the Prince doesn’t have him expelled if anything else goes wrong today.

And luck has never been on his side.

For the first time in his life, he swallows back the snark building in his throat as he meets Professor Port’s eyes. He is _not_ going to look in any other direction and especially not towards the Crown fucking Prince who is standing next to him, so close that their sleeves are basically touching.

“Ah Qrow,” Port announces in a far too jovial tone. Port’s like twenty-six at a push, but the guy acts as if he’s pushing sixty. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

He lets a crooked smile form on his face, “A first-year got lost again.”

Port, bless his not-so-ancient heart, chuckles, “At this rate, you’ll have a nursery trailing you before the end of the term.”

“Better me late than them,” he says with a small shrug.

“Yes, yes,” Port agrees and turns back to his blackboard, hand already reaching up to start writing again, “Please, Qrow, take your seat.”

He nods despite Port being turned away and moves to his seat beside Fiona Thyme who shoots him a small smile as she pushes the textbook to the middle of their shared desk. 

Of course, they’re recapping a battle won by the Prince’s Father today. And of course, it’s the one where they were losing pretty badly before King Ironwood showed up.

Idly, he wonders if the Prince and his entourage had gotten here before or after Joanna Greenleaf had gone on a rant about how they shouldn’t be changing the lesson plan just because of a Royal visit. Based on Fiona’s relaxed shoulders, he’d guess before.

“Now,” Port says, turning back to the class, “Can anyone tell us why the Battle of Argus is also known as the Slaughter at Sanctum?”

Silence.

He snorts.

“Mr. Branwen?”

_Ah shit_. He leans back in his seat, “A lot of people died?”

Port stares at him with narrowed eyes for several seconds before his shoulders rise visibly and then fall. He turns away, eyes narrowing on his (silently laughing) twin, “Mrs. Branwen?”

Raven chews her lip, “A lot of people died at Sanctum?”

“That they did indeed,” Port says, a hint of a smile under his mustache. He turns away from Raven, “How about you, Mr. Amin?”

“Uh,” Marrow says, his eyes going wide as they flicked around the room. He blinks when Marrow’s eyes lock onto him, desperation clear.

_Right_ , he’d tutored Marrow in history last term as punishment for talking back to one of their teachers. He scans his brain for what they’d talked about: Marrow learned best through associations. Under the table, he gives Marrow a thumbs up and mouths, _Schnee did a pee-pee, screamed like a banshee, but the good old Ironwood fought and withstood and won the battle for the brotherhood_.

It’s a stupid rhyme, it’s a _really really_ stupid rhyme. It was near midnight when Qrow had suggested it and somehow, it stuck. 

“Well, the uh slaughter… many people put it down to the uh inexperience of General Schnee as the first, no as the youngest to hold the General title in history,” Marrow starts slowly, eyes flitting to Qrow who nods along. Writing practice essays on it with Marrow had been just as slow. “He spent almost no time strategizing before the battle and didn’t wait for backups despite orders to do so, and instead led his-, oh wait, he also didn’t send scouts to see the size of the opposing army, and so he led his troop into a battle where they were unmatched and had no chance to survive. So he made the choice to retreat, but a branch of the Asturian troops had split off with a plan to attack from behind and so they ran into a slaughter and were pinned from all sides. Three-quarters of his troops were dead by the time King Ironwood’s troops arrived as backup.”

“Very good, Mr. Amin,” Port says, his voice layered with kindness and pride. He’s one of the few teachers Qrow can stand. “Your textbooks have a slightly different account of General Schnee’s comportment, but Mr. Amin’s account is just as likely to be accurate. If you’d like to expand your perspectives, there are plenty of books in the library and I imagine the young Mr. Oobleck will be happy to help you-, yes Miss Greenleaf?”

Joanna’s voice is sickly sweet as she asks, “Why are we taught this account?”

He snorts, “Definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the sizeable donation Jacques-ass made to Beacon last year.”

Fiona tenses beside him and he glances at her, raising a brow. She stares straight ahead, eyes wide. He blinks. 

Port clears his throat very deliberately and speaks in a rough voice, “You would have to ask Lord Sleet about that, Miss Greenleaf. I have little control over the textbooks that are set.”

His brow furrows and then, _oh_.

Well, there goes the third impression. 

-

He doesn’t get to make a fourth impression for two days which he supposes is the universe apologizing for shitting on his parade so spectacularly.

The only surprise is any of his classes is a compliment over a hat he knitted despite his deliberate and stubborn choice to use multicolored wool. And he deserves the fucking compliment, the hat looks fantastic. So fantastic that Summer wears it around the halls until some miserable looking teacher confiscates it for not being formal enough.

From second year on, each year group gets a morning off. Mondays for second year, Tuesdays for third year, and so on until you hit seventh year and wahey, no more free time for you because you’re too busy being presented to airhead nobility. 

As fourth years, they get Wednesday mornings off and as the three of them have been doing since they’d first met Summer on the first day, they’re lounging in a hidden alcove in the garden. Raven’s got her head in his lap with her legs tangled with Summer’s who is sat a few feet away with a geography book laying in her lap. Qrow’s hands are busy braiding Raven’s hair for her.

She doesn’t bother asking anymore, hasn’t done so since they were nine and she realized he was better at it than her.

“You know,” she starts, opening one eye to stare up at her. He gives a flat look. “I’m still not over what happened in history.”

He huffs, “Which part?”

Summer looks up at them, “What did you do now?”

“It wasn’t all my fault!” he defends, not bothering to look up from Raven’s hair as he untangles a knot. He really needs to buy her a new hairbrush, or steal one. “If Raven hadn’t pawned the first year off on me, I wouldn’t have been late.”

“You’re late all the time,” Summer points out, her gaze curious now, “What’s different about it this time?”

Raven snorts, “What’s different is that this birdbrain entered the classroom and stood right next to the Prince and just didn’t acknowledge him at all.”

It surprises a laugh out of Summer, “Fuck, Qrow, are you actively trying to get yourself executed?”

“I didn’t know they were observing! I was late and then I was standing next to the Prince,” he defends, pulling a little too hard on Raven’s hair which elicits a yelp out of her. “What the fuck was I meant to do? Turn to him and talk about the bloody weather?”

“Never change, Qrow,” Summer says after a few moments of silence. He huffs. 

“That’s not even the half of it,” Raven says and he doesn’t need to see the smile on her face to know it’s there. He can hear it in her voice, “Joanna Greenleaf asked why our textbooks have a favorable view of General Schnee in them and Qrow said, what was it again, _probably not related to the donation Jacques-ass made to Beacon last year_?”

He presses his lips into a line, “That was the gist, yeah.”

“Okay, you are just actively trying to get yourself executed,” Summer states, eyes wide. 

“I always do shit like this,” he points out, relaxing his grip slightly, “I just forgot that the Royal entourage was at the back of the classroom.”

Raven’s eyes light up, “Is it treason you call them a Royal entourage?”

He snorts and rolls his eyes, “Hey Summer, can you whack her for me? Hands are busy right now.”

“Hey!” Raven protests when Summer does just that. He flashes her a grin. “You’re definitely making an impression on him, Qrow.”

“As if. I bet he’s already forgotten about me, I’ll just be another foolish omega pawning over the Crown Prince,” he retorts, pulling her hair again, “Can we change the subject to something interesting?”

“Like what? All the first year strays you keep collecting?” Summer asks with a wry smirk. 

He groans, “Why are you both teaming up against me? I’m not the one who kicked Lisa Lavender during harpsichord practice yesterday.”

Raven reaches up to bat him on the arm and he tightens his grip on her hair, eyes flashing a warning. She scowls, “If she didn’t want to get kicked, _her_ foot shouldn’t have been in the way of the pedal.”

“Oh?” he asks, staring down at her with raised brows, “You know, I thought it was my fault when I poured gravy on you when we were six, but maybe your head shouldn’t have been there.”

“Fuck you-”

She’s cut off by a tight voice, “Are you allowed to be here?”

His head snaps up, locking eyes on the intruder to their little haven. It’s one of the Prince’s entourage. _Of course_. The guy looks incredibly confused and conflicted, hand tapping on the satchel on his left side.

“It’s school territory,” he answers, not missing a beat. He smiles at the alpha, but the guy’s eyes are reserved for everyone here that isn’t Qrow. “We have permission to be on school territory, this is school territory, ergo we’re allowed to be here. That good with you, Pretty Boy?”

It’s absolute bullshit. They’re not meant to be in the garden without permission, but fuck that.

“Right,” Pretty Boy says slowly, glancing up at Qrow who flashes him a wicked grin with far too many teeth. The alpha’s face clouds over with even more confusion. 

“Hey Tai, man, are you nearly done?” another voice asks, accompanied by heavy footsteps. Qrow watches with narrowed eyes as another entourage alpha appears and stares at all of them, “Are they meant to be here?”

“Apparently,” Pretty Boy- Tai, he supposes -says, managing to display such disbelief in one word that Qrow is almost impressed. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Come on, let’s go finish the tour of the grounds before James gets worried.”

_James_. Fuck, Pretty Boy has balls to go along with his pretty face. Even Qrow wouldn’t call the guy James to his face. 

The other alpha doesn’t look convinced, “Says the fucking Baron. You might not get in trouble, Xiao Long, but I will.”

“Harriet,” Tai says, tongue dipping out to wet his lips, “They’re not hurting anyone. We didn’t see anything. Voices must have carried from the dorms. Now, _come on_.”

They watch the two alphas stare at each other until Harriet curses and turns on her heel, stalking out. Taiyang flashes them a sheepish smile before following.

“What the fuck?” Raven whispers and Qrow lets go of her hair to put his hand over her mouth. She glares at him but pushes up to a sitting position so he can move to the little view perch they’d found in second year.

He can just about see the two alphas approach what he assumes is the Prince. He swallows, this is not good.

“Well?” the Prince asks them, his voice deep and warm. Qrow feels his shoulders relax just hearing it before his brow pulls up and he tenses. 

What the fuck?

“Nothing,” Xiao Long says and Qrow has to stop himself from cursing out loud. “The voices must have carried from the dorms.”

The Prince stares at Xiao Long for several seconds before a small smile spreads across his face, “Lying is not one of your strengths, Tai.”

“Shit,” Xiao Long curses and fuck, Qrow can see his blush from his shitty view. “I mean, _darn_.”

“Darn?” Harriet asks, sounding like she’s having the time of her life.

Xiao Long scowls, “Shut up.”

Ironwood holds his hand up before Harriet can respond, his entire body exuberating command. Fuck. 

“If you don’t think it’s a problem, I’ll trust your judgment,” he says in a much warmer voice than earlier which Qrow would have sworn was impossible. “Both of your judgments. Now, I believe we have a tour to get back to? I imagine Oobleck has gotten a mile ahead of us by now.”

Qrow snorts and leans back. He shuffles over to the other two, meeting their expectant glances. He shrugs, “Reckon the Prince sent them in. Pretty Boy can’t lie for shit, but the Prince didn’t press him on it, just said he trusted their judgments.”

Raven’s face scrunches up, “That’s weird.”

He shrugs, “You’re telling me.”

Summer hums, “Didn’t the other one call the blonde one a Baron?”

“She did, yeah,” Raven affirms and then she smirks, eyes lighting up again. “That’s another one for the Qrow and memorable impressions jar, calling a Baron Pretty Boy.”

He groans, “We are not having a jar.”

-

They get a jar.

Raven and Summer decorate it dutifully and display it in the middle of the windowsill. Qrow just glares at it from time to time and spends the rest thanking their fourth dormmate for getting kicked out in second year for missing too many steps in a dance routine so they don’t have to explain this bullshit to him. 

The jar itself ends up chronically underused after that though which is a great example as to why they shouldn’t have had a jar because the minute they get a jar, it’ll stop happening.

Although that’s actually probably an argument towards getting a jar. Huh.

Other than seeing the Royal entourage stride around the halls, eat dinner with them and occasionally look into their classes, Qrow doesn’t see the Prince for the rest of the week. He has a feeling that Ozpin is actively guiding them away from any classes with the ‘unruly omegas’ and Qrow is fairly fucking certain he takes the cake on that one.

Besides the… feral streak he delights in, he doesn’t fit the perfect image of what an omega should be and he certainly isn’t ready to roll over and show his belly to any alpha that speaks to him. It’s an archaic idea, and he will and has decked any alpha that expects him to.

That doesn’t change that the school expects him to (even with all the changes Ozpin has been striving to make since he took over) and he doesn’t which is probably why he isn’t able to get more than a glimpse at the Prince. And he’s not disappointed about it.

_He’s not._

According to Summer (who got it from Roman Torchwick of all people, who apparently got it from Will Scarlatina who got it from Lisa Lavender), the best student of the day gets to bring supper to the Prince and his entourage in their quarters each day. He has absolutely no interest in doing that, he’s not a fucking teaboy, but it’s not like he’d ever get picked for that.

And anyway, he has to do extra laundry duty every night during supper time so he couldn’t do it even if Glynda or whoever chose lost their minds and chose him for it.

Despite years of extra laundry duty, he’s yet to figure out why the fuck they do it so late. He very much does not appreciate it. It means either he must trek across the entire school to get to his room and go further than his room because of ill-advised stair placement or walk through the gardens in the dark and cold. Both of which suck balls. Especially when the school uniform does absolutely nothing to protect from cold.

Pulling his jacket around him tighter, he pushes past a bush and into the open space of the garden. With the clouds hiding the moon, he can barely see three paces in front of him and if it wasn’t for his childhood and experience of doing this, he’d have fallen on his face every other step. Raven’s probably the only person who knows it better and that’s because she and Summer have been sneaking out every Friday night to make out or whatever. Point is, he can do this trip in his sleep.

Which makes it just that tad bit more embarrassing when he trips over a tree root and falls straight into someone’s arms. 

His eyes widen and he scrambles to balance himself in whoever’s arms he’s currently fucking standing in. The sliver of moonlight above them illuminate their face and _holy fucking shit, why the fuck is he standing in the Prince’s arms?_

Absurd. Fucking absurd. His life is fucking absurd.

“Uh thanks,” he mutters, far too aware of how dry his throat is. A few seconds go by and _fuck_ , “Your highness?”

“There’s no need to thank me,” the Prince said all too softly for a Royal. That warmth seems even more present so close up. “Isn’t it a bit late to be walking around the gardens?”

He nods, “Laundry duty… your highness.”

The Prince’s hands are still on his arms and his whole body feels alive at the touch. Every fucking adult omega he’s ever met has told him about how an alpha’s touch is like heaven or some shit. He’d never fucking believed them and even when he’d entertained the thought, he’d never imagined it would be like this. His entire body is on fire and his heart is racing in his chest. He can feel the blood rushing through his veins. Shit, he could wax rhapsodic about it.

“It’s quite late for laundry duty,” the Prince comments and his grip tightens on Qrow’s arm. He swallows a whimper down, forcing himself not to lean into the touch. It’s the fucking Prince of Remnant, and he’s Qrow fucking Branwen. He needs to get a hold of himself.

He shrugs and lets out a breath, “Yeah, I don’t have a fu-, I don’t have a clue why extra laundry duty is so late at night, your highness.” 

Just when he thinks he’s gotten an iota of control back, the Prince begins rubbing gentle circles into his arm, and fuck, he’s gone for. He’s fucking gone for. What the fuck is happening?

“I see,” the Prince says and Qrow finds himself nodding, “And what did you do to earn this extra duty, Mr?”

It sounds like a request; it’s not.

“Branwen, Qrow Branwen,” he introduces, the years of teaching his Father had put him through kicking in, “I elected to not go to ball practice for the tenth time in a row, but apparently you can’t elect to not go to mandatory events.”

To his utter fucking surprise, the Prince lets out a light laugh and removes one of his hands from Qrow’s arm. He swallows down another whimper. Fuck.

“You’d think the word mandatory would convey that,” the Prince teases. _He teases._ Qrow’s mouth runs dry at the Prince’s words and tone, not sure how the fuck to feel about them. “And please, Qrow, call me James.”

Even his eyes widen at that. The Crown Prince of Remnant does not ask a random omega who tripped into him to call him by his real name. Qrow does not follow tradition or conventions if he can help it, but fuck, the Prince- no, _James_ is just throwing all of them out of the window.

He nods and runs his tongue along his teeth, “I elected to redefine mandatory so that I would be able to elect to not go, James.”

James smiles at that and fuck, it’s a nice smile. “Do you mind if I ask why you elected to not attend the mandatory event, Qrow?”

A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips and he lets it grow. He can do teasing. “They’re really fucking boring and I’d rather stab myself than hold a conversation with the majority of the nobles present at them.”

It elicits another laugh from James and oh for fuck’s sake, he has such a nice laugh too. “I can’t say I disagree, but in the interest of court politics, I shouldn’t agree either.”

“Perks of being a lowly omega,” he remarks, leaning into the touch a little, “Besides, it’s not like I’ll be attending many balls in my lifetime. I don’t really need to practice.”

James hums, “You won’t?”

He shakes his head, “Only the top ten percent are ever presented to anyone who is above a lower noble, if that, and there’s no chance of that ever happening for me.”

Confusion clouds James’ features, his very beautiful features, “Considering your sharp wit and the way you helped the boy in your history class, you seem to be intelligent and possess a wide variety of skills. Surely that would give you a good place in the rankings.”

“I’ve been reliably informed that the everything about me is not what is wanted in an omega,” he comments and sucks his teeth. He hadn’t realized anyone noticed him helping Marrow, let alone James who is, again, the goddamn fucking Prince. “Academic rankings aren’t worth shit really. I’m mediocre in pretty much everything else, apart from _Aesthetic Pleasure_ which I fucking suck at.”

“The conventional omega, perhaps,” James says softly and with his free hand, he reaches out to caress Qrow’s jaw. His breath hitches at the contact. “I find it hard to believe that you ‘suck’ at that, you certainly have the prettiest eyes of all the students here.”

He will _never_ admit it, but fuck if he doesn’t forget to breathe when James’ breath tickles his neck and his fingers dance across his jaw.

“Well, you know, it’s a subjective category,” he breathes out and who is he trying to convince? He glances up to meet James’ eyes and oh he never wants to look away again. There’s something ablaze in his eyes and Qrow wants to revel in that fire.

“Oh?” James asks him darkly, leaning even closer to Qrow who is admittedly frozen in place. Fuck, their classes don’t tell them shit about _this_. “Tell me, Qrow, do you think I’d be able to change that scoring considering how incorrect it is.”

There are so many fucking sensations running through his body and shit, it’s fucking euphoric.

“Probably,” he says, his voice positively wrecked. “Pretty sure the Prince can do whatever he wants.”

“Anything I want, huh?” James asks and fuck, his breath is tickling Qrow’s neck. The shudder that turns through him is entirely involuntary. “I imagine you’re ready to return back to your room now.”

He blinks as James pulls back wholly, biting his lip to clamp down the whimper that so nearly escapes.

Nodding, he lets out a breath, “It is fucking freezing.”

James lets out a laugh, face carefree as if he hadn’t just been torturing Qrow with little touches and graces of breath. The bastard.

“It is cold, indeed,” James agrees, smiling at Qrow, “Why did you choose to walk through the gardens to get to your room at this hour?”

“It’s quicker than navigating the staircases of inconveniences inside,” he explains. It’s a lot fucking easier to keep a steady voice now that James isn’t distracting him. He can’t say he prefers it though. “Plus, I’m less likely to wake anyone up this way.”

James nods, “Thank you for your company tonight, Qrow.”

He opens his mouth to retort but finds himself closing it. He swallows, “Goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight, Qrow,” James tells him and steps aside to let Qrow pass. 

Safe to say, he's not entirely there for the walk back to his dorm. That combined with the fact that Raven stopped waiting up for him after Qrow earned himself three weeks of laundry duty in first year causes him to nearly shriek when he opens their door to see Raven lounging on his bed staring straight at him.

It’s totally nothing to do with jittering nerves from… _whatever_ that was.

“You’re back late,” Raven says in a quiet voice, standing up off his bed. He gives her a small smile and pads over to his bed where Raven promptly grabs his collar and sniffs. “Your scent’s different.”

“Uh huh,” he says and pulls away so he can flop down on his bed.

She gives him a flat look, “You can’t just come back late and smelling of some alpha and not say anything.”

“Seems like I can.”

“Qrow.”

“Raven.”

“I hate you sometimes,” she mutters as her nose wrinkles up again. She sniffs and bloody fucking hell does he see the moment she realizes, “ _Qrow, why do you smell like the Prince?_ ”

“I ran into him on my way back,” he says, which is entirely true. He’s hardly going to give his sister all the details. “We talked a little out of courtesy.”

She raises her eyebrows, “And during what part of that did he scent you?”

“ _Oh,_ ” he says, dumbly, “That’s what he was doing.”

“That’s what he was doing?” she repeats, face incredulous. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You didn’t notice that he was scenting you? Qrow, you’re denser than a brick wall.”

“Hey,” he protests weakly, cheeks flushing, “I was… distracted.”

“Because he was scenting you,” she says and lets out a quiet laugh, eyes glancing to the sleeping Summer a few feet away. “Father is going to have a heart attack when he finds out the Crown Prince is courting you.”

He rolls his eyes, “He’s hardly fucking courting me, Rae, we’ve had one conversation.”

“Where he scented you,” Raven points out and well, she has a point. A point he is not willing to consider right now because that’s a lot of information to process. “It’s his last night here and he fucking scented you. This is totally going into the jar.”

“I will murder you in your sleep, he tells her with narrowed eyes before turning over to face the wall, "Nothing will come of it, Rae. He's the Prince and I'm... well, me."

"Qrow-"

"Raven," he interrupts and huffs, "Just leave it, okay? For me?"


End file.
